Diet
by anthrop
Summary: A oneshot between Todd and Pepito. Todd's got a spiffy new diet of air. See end author's note for knowledge.


Diet

8101010101018

The ceiling was spinning.

His eyes were playing tricks on him.

That was all.

He knew that.

He _knew_ that.

Really?

He just couldn't be a hundred percent on it. Not with the life he had. Rotating ceilings could be a sign of yet more alien experimentation, or overexposure to the hibernating tentacle-beast in his sock drawer. Maybe it was the little ghost-girl trying to do him in again, or any number of other life-threatening possibilities. He just couldn't be sure.

His heart beat a little faster at the rush of disturbing scenarios his overactive imagination conjured up, but he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. Breathe and assess the situation. The ol' who, what, when, where, and why. It hadn't failed to clarify things for him yet. Another round couldn't hurt.

So.

Who: Who was he? He was Todd Casil, but everyone called him Squee. He wasn't quite twelve last time he checked the calendar, and he was—miraculously—a student at the nearby middle school. He liked to be creative, you know, writing, drawing, surviving in collapsing alternate dimensions. Casual shit. Blah blah blah. He knew who he was. Better to move on to the next one rather than waste time. Never knew when he was going to pass out.

What: What was wrong?

. . . . . . um . . . . . .

He'd come back to that one. So much was wrong with everything these days. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what he needed to focus on, even when it was slapping him in the face. Like it was now. With enough concentration he could probably figure it out . . . eventually, but he didn't feel like doing that just yet. He blamed it on old-fashioned laziness. Next.

When: When was this happening? Summer vacation, which explained why the house was so quiet. His parents had gone to Hawaii for an undetermined length of time and, of course, had left him behind to fend for himself. If he remembered correctly—which he did—they had been hoping he'd run off and become a street junkie or something. The particulars hadn't seemed to matter, just as long as he was gone by the time they got back. If it was still summer vacation (never could be sure, after all), it also explained why he wasn't over at his best—okay, _only_, but why go into specifics?—friend's house rotting his brains out of his ears playing video games and gorging—mhm, gorging, ack no don't think about it—on junk food. The Diablos were touring Asia, partly on vacation, but also Mr. Diablo was—how'd he put it?—"prospecting for potential followers", or something ominous like that. Todd tried to never pay attention when Mr. Diablo brought up the subject of his job. He didn't know when they'd be back. Pepito kept slipping into Chinese (Or maybe it had been Korean; Asian languages weren't exactly his forte.) the last time they'd spoken over the phone, plus the connection had been shitty thanks to all the interference of the damaged spaceship in the attic.

In short, he was alone with this. But that wasn't all that unusual, so he was more than capable of dealing. Yeah, he could totally handle this. Okay, next one.

Where: Where was he? Home, more specifically his bedroom, more specifically half-conscious on his unmade bed. One hand behind his head, the other on his hollow, hollow belly. That was an easy one. Just as long as this wasn't another simulation to make him feel comfortable while he was actually in a galaxy far, far away. That had been really irritating. And creepy. He decided to ignore that particular memory and move on.

Why: Why was he in this situation at all? Easy. His parents didn't like him and the Universe seemed to have it out for him. 'Nuff said.

Okay. Okay. Back to what. Time to assess the physical aspect of his current situation. How did he feel? He was light-headed and quite dizzy, and if it wasn't for the reassuring feeling of fabric and old springs beneath his spine, he would have sworn on a stack of Bibles (despite all irony) he was floating. His extremities twitched erratically if he moved them even a little. Headache. Dry mouth. And he couldn't forget the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Breathing. Slow and steady, forcing his mind to blank. It was an old technique from childhood long-since perfected to stave off the imminent panic that was always there, just beneath the thin mask of his outward calm. He knew what was going on. There was nothing remotely supernatural about it. He could deal with this.

He was only hungry.

Okay, more than hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Which in its own way was pretty scary, considering the photographic memory a couple of G'norpkic aliens had installed as a thank-you sort of thing in return for the use of his attic. (They were the ones with the busted ship up there now. Something about a run-in with an Irken Voot Cruiser, whatever _that_ was.) It was pretty state-of-the-art. A little too much, perhaps. He could remember everything. _Everything._ And again, with the life he had, that wasn't all that great. In fact, it pretty much sucked all around. But anyway, if he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent meal, well, that was bad.

But it was all right. Of course it was. It had to be. It wasn't as if this was unusual. Wasn't something he wasn't used to. Wasn't totally normal, if anything in his life could be called normal.

Yep, nothing new here.

He sighed loudly, then frowned with his eyes still shut at the resulting extra tailspin to his dizziness. The half-imagined white dots in the darkness behind his eyelids whirled like the plastic stuff in snow globes. He opened his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch, and his empty stomach lurched at the sight of the smiley-face wallpaper, corroded by time, as it stretched and dripped in all directions. He grimaced and breathed slowly and carefully, deep measured lungfuls, and eventually his room stilled to only an occasional tilt, and only if he blinked too quickly.

The house was very quiet, apart from the occasional clanking and burst of gibberish up in the attic, but that was ignored easily enough. His parents still weren't back. How many days had they been gone now? Looking at the clock hurt his eyes, so he had no idea what time it was. His calendar had also been "borrowed" by closet monster #247 (he was pretty sure it was named Jeb) shortly before his parents had left, so he didn't have a clue as to what day it was either. He risked a glance at the clock. The red glow burned, but he managed. 6:42. Dinnertime in most homes. Most homes.

Dinner. His mouth watered at the mere word, so he pushed the thought away before it could get the better of him. The best thing to do was to simply not think about it. Do something else, something nice and distracting. Like . . . drawing. Yes! That was easy, and you didn't have to pay all that much attention to your hand. Just let it wander; watch as subconscious thoughts came to life on paper.

Oh, and try not to pass out and end up with eraser wedged in your eye socket.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his mattress. It was, incidentally, the same bed he'd had since he was half the size he was now. And he'd grown a surprising amount despite his less-than-sufficient intake of proper nutrients, and so his sleeping arrangements had become increasingly awkward in recent months, but it was manageable. If nothing else, the floor could be used as a last resort. It was relatively safe now, especially since he'd struck up that peace treaty with the plague bunnies nesting in his carpet.

Sitting up hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. Standing, however, was an entirely different story.

Everything tilted dramatically to an almost ninety-degree angle. Black spiraled in the corners of his vision as vertigo struck full-force. His knees gave out, collapse and possible blackout looming inevitably. _Thwack! _Agony bloomed as his forehead struck the wooden edge of his nightstand. The lamp toppled off and crashed into a hundred potentially fatal ceramic pieces. Nerves trembled and eyelids shuddered closed as his undernourished body tried to handle this latest setback.

Minutes passed.

"Owwww . . ."

Conscious again, and in quite a lot of pain. He struggled to his feet—much more cautiously this time—and adjusted his glasses with one quavering hand. The other steadied him on the very piece of furniture that had been rude enough not to leap out of the downward path his face had just unwillingly taken. Tenderly he prodded his aching brow and bit back a yelp of pain. A glance at his fingers assured him he wasn't bleeding, but it still hurt like one serious mother. He'd have a fantastic bruise there by tomorrow, no doubt about that that. He shook his head slowly to clear it of the ringing in his ears and immediately regretted it. So much ow.

Well, the best thing for blunt force trauma was an icepack and oh, about half a bottle of maximum-strength painkillers, in which the medicine cabinet was always well stocked in. The aftereffects of his mom's highs weren't always fun, not that he complained. Sure, she was snappish and always on the verge of puking or something, but at least then she had a vague notion of who he was. But now wasn't the time to think of such unpleasantries. So, first to the bathroom to fetch that oh-so-needed analgesic, and then to the kitchen for the icepack. A sandwich wouldn't hurt either, but since the fridge was fresh out, he would manage to do without.

He eventually made it down the stairs in time to hear the phone ring a million miles away in the living room. He ignored it. No way in hell was he ready to deal with zombie telemarketers or weeping grannies trying to make contact with their long-lost Chihuahua beasties or whatever was on the line. Nuh-uh, no fucking way.

_Nice language._

"Oh, hey Shmee." Ack, it was weird talking. Hadn't done that for a few days, it seemed like.

_How are you holding up?_

He poured himself a glass of water from the faucet while trying not to think of all the toxins swirling around inside and popped open the lid of the plastic medicine bottle. He thought the question over quite thoroughly, chewing his lip, making sure to keep a good grip on the edge of the counter to prevent another disagreeable fall. Finally he came to a simple solution to a question that was entirely too complicated for words.

He ignored it.

Shmee didn't take to that too kindly, but through all the years of having that sardonic voice in his head he'd become quite experienced at protecting his mind. A few mental brick walls, a reinforced steel door with enough locks and supports to keep out the Devil himself (tested and proven, miraculously), and his thoughts settled into that gentle floating awareness once more.

Completely ignoring the warnings and directions plastered to the little bottle, he dumped most of its contents into his hand. He gave the pile of dusty pills in the center of his palm a good long stare before tossing back and following them with a healthy swig of gray water. His face screwed up at the awful taste but he managed to keep them down. He felt them hit his stomach and shivered at the unpleasant sensation. All right. Okay. Okie-dokie. Something in his stomach, not necessarily food but something nonetheless. Now to get that icepack.

He went to the refrigerator. Chains thick and thin littered the linoleum all around it, some still dangling from the top and trailing down its sides. Several padlocks and a few cheap bicycle locks cluttered the nearby counter. Yes. His parents had actually bothered to physically bar him from eating before they'd vanished into the sunset. Anything even vaguely resembling food had either been put inside there or simply thrown out. That had certainly been a surprise when he'd come home from the last day of school. But he'd dealt with it accordingly. Of course, his parents didn't know about most of his life, so they had have assumed much less of him. The locks hadn't been a problem at all. No, the problem had been much worse.

Everything inside was expired.

God, that had been horrible.

With not even a dime wandering the house and with morals still too intact to succumb to stealing, he'd been forced to ingest things the various pests living in his house had deemed unfit to eat, and there had of course been dire consequences. He and the toilet were good friends now. Oh yeah, very intimate relationship there. Guh.

Yet. And yet. And yet. It had been "food", more or less, and it had attempted to fill his belly as best and as long as it could. It had kept him functioning. Had kept him alive.

However, rational law seemed it fit to decree that no portal to a veritable food-filled paradise be placed inside the deli drawer. Despite all rationing, every last crumb was eventually consumed.

And thus had begun the starvation process.

As he reached for the icepack nestled between the ice cube tray and the frozen corpse of—um, something—he decided it wasn't as bad as everybody always blathered on about. It was almost pleasant in its own kind of way. Most of the terrifying, deadly or just plain weird things that usually happened on a day-to-day basis seemed to cease almost completely. It was almost as if he was getting a vacation too. Even though this vacation could and in all likelihood would very well end in death, that was okay. It was peaceful while it lasted.

He slapped the ice-crusted bag to his forehead and simultaneously winced and shivered with relief as the cold sank into the inflamed welt. Already he felt better, and could easily ignore the jackknifing pains in his abdomen. Had to take pleasure in the little things. Otherwise he'd just go crazy and pull a Scary Neighbor Man, and that had never sounded like a good idea. He shuddered at the thought of his neighbor and automatically glanced out the window toward the decrepit shack. No movement. No sounds. Like that was anything new. Whatever.

He made his way back towards the stairs. God, was the telephone _still_ ringing? Okay, enough was enough. Time to take charge and, and…and do whatever else taking charge implied. His brain was really starting to get fuzzy. That was okay. There'd be less nightmares when he slept tonight, at least. He wandered out into the living room and stared blankly for a minute. Where was the blasted thing anyway?

Wait, there it was.

He wriggled it out from between the couch cushions and glared at it. Now that it was actually in his hand it seemed a lot louder, and that only aggravated his headache. Red and green lights flashed at him with each ring. He scowled, tossed the icepack onto the weathered coffee table, and quickly removed the batteries from the cordless. Silence. Ah. Was there ever anything better? As an afterthought he unplugged anything that could make a sound, a precaution against any poltergeists that felt like showing up and having a little fun. Fifteen minutes later he was dragging himself back to bed, his pockets bulging with batteries and his eyes nearly cross-eyed with the effort. Everything was so hazy. He just wanted to sleep. Forget drawing. He was just so tired. Sleep. Just for an hour or so…

The phone rang.

He leaned against the doorframe, appreciating its solidity. Without its support he would probably have fallen over at the shrill sound echoing through the stillness. After a moment he moved, resolutely ignoring the sound. He was crazy, he decided. Crazy with hunger and probably just plain old crazy too. Wouldn't surprise him, after all. He should be crazy. He sat down on the bed, holding the now dripping compress to his forehead, and considered the idea. He said it aloud a few times. "I am crazy… I am crazy…" Tried a few variations. "I am insane… I am mentally unbalanced…" Time passed, of which he wasn't aware.

He decided he was okay with the idea of being a nutter. It was just something else he had to deal with. And after awhile, he was able to ignore the phantom ringing. He folded his legs and shifted his body until he faced the wall. Smileys grinned back. Where were all his drawings and posters? Oh yeah. He'd taken them down… maybe two or three days ago. That tentacle-beast seemed to have the same effect on him as experimental drugs. Crack City, USA. The smileys were tolerable, and if they ever got too bad he could always nail towels to the walls, but all the colors and frozen motion of movie posters and his large-scale illustrations… ouch.

It took him a minute to realize the smiley closest to his face had grown fangs. He blinked, and its black oval eyes had narrowed and changed color. One red, the other purple, one slightly larger than the other. He rubbed his eyes. Definitely hallucinating. Had to be. Looked back. Pepito's head snickered a foot from his nose.

"_Hola, amigo,_" The head said amiably.

"Um." This was certainly going to be entertaining. Whatever this was, anyway.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to call you?"

"Um."

Pepito stared at him. "You…appear unwell, Todd." His smooth eyebrows furrowed, then rose slightly. "May I enquire as to how you've come into the situation you appear to be in?"

"Um."

The head seemed to decide simpler words were best. Definitely. "What's happened?"

"Oh. I…" Squee trailed off, looking decidedly out of it. The skin stretching subtly over protruding cheekbones reddened. He was suddenly and quite painfully aware of his current appearance and knew that the floating apparition was imagining all sorts of curious and horrible scenarios to explain just how his best friend had ended up thirty-four pounds underweight with a significant and obvious concussion and clearly on his way to an overdose on one thing or another. Not picking up the phone, in retrospect, was a really, really, _really_ retarded idea.

Oh well, too late now.

"My parents are out of town."

Yep. World's best explanation there.

Pepito stared. The silence dug into Squee's ears and a low buzzing quickly replaced it. Whether it was his imagination or something else was something he didn't feel like trying to figure out. His vision blurred and he forced himself to blink. Satanic floating head of best friend still there? Check. Okay. Sure. This was so weird right now it was normal, and it was so normal it was horrible. And really depressing. Ack. Better not get into that.

"When did you last eat?"

"…"

Was… was that genuine concern there? Squee decided he'd hit his head harder than he thought, to be imagining things like that. The Antichrist? _Caring_? About a _mortal_? Pfft, hell wasn't frozen yet, so no go on that one. He decided it was the crazies getting to him again. Time to lie!

"I'm trying this new diet I heard about on the Internet. Um, it promotes… physical and mental cleansing." He chuckled half-heartedly. "And we both know how much I need _that_."

Pepito's eyes had a deeply concerned glint within them, but Squee didn't notice. Couldn't, would probably be a better word. Nor would he have wanted too. The head's facial muscles moved into something casual.

"I am home from Asia a day early. My parents will not arrive for another sixteen hours, as my father thought it best to go the mundane way with my mother." A glance at Squee's blank expression. "Erm, they're using an airplane while I teleported with my amazing satanic powers."

"Oh. Cool."

Pepito sighed a little and kept pressing the obvious. "But I now find myself inexplicably bored. Come; we will entertain ourselves with the badly translated foreign films I bought while I was away. I ordered take-out too. It should arrive momentarily."

Squee shrugged one shoulder indifferently, pulling a battery out of one pocket and watching his hand fiddle with it rather than look at Pepito. "I dunno. I was thinking of getting my acrylics out. Been, um, been toying with some ideas. They're starting to bump against each other, in my brain. Kinda distracting, and it's hard to fo—"

"Liar."

Squee looked up sharply, dropping the ice pack. Condensation dampened one pant leg and he scowled.

"Stop that. Stop reading my brain."

Pepito rolled his eyes. Squee blinked and suddenly the rest of Pepito was there across from him, likewise cross legged and his hands gripping his knees, leaning forward. His face was now inches from Squee's, iron fangs bared into something between a smile and a grimace. Close. So close. Oh god—

"Aaaaugh!"

Fwump.

Squee was now on his back, on the floor, his legs flailing in the air. Little black batteries spilled every which way. His arms bent at strange angles that still managed to be comfortable. After a moment of reorientation he calmed and let his limbs rest where they would. His stomach chose that moment to give a particularly vicious contraction. He groaned. He could feel the embarrassment staining his cheeks again. That was really, really not wanted. Completely unnecessary.

Dammit.

Pepito's horned head peered over the edge, claws gripping the rumpled, unwashed sheets. "Are you all right?"

"You bet."

An exasperated sigh, followed by the cacophony of aged and abused bedsprings and a moment later Pepito sat beside him on the battery and ceramic shards covered floor, leaning against the mattress. Squee stared at the ceiling through his tousled bangs, not wanting to meet Pepito's eyes. Above in the attic the G'norpkics were strangely quiet. Probably on a break. Or something. Squee briefly wondered if they even existed. Were they just part of his routine hallucinations? He'd have to ask Pepito for a second opinion. A quick glance at his friend. Eventually. Now didn't seem the best time.

Squee's eyes drooped heavily and he found it suddenly difficult to respond. His tongue felt heavy and lucid in his mouth and he decided it wasn't worth the effort to try and form coherent words. He grunted noncommittally and turned his head to stare at the fabric of Pepito's black jeans. A calloused hand cupped the side of his thin face, fingers lightly stroking the blue-brown skin beneath one hazel eye. It felt curiously good, almost comforting in a strange kind of way. He leaned into the touch and hummed in the back of his throat. Faded out.

Pepito breathed out in a low chuckle. "What am I going to do with you, _amigo_?"

Squee didn't respond. The Antichrist looked down at his best friend. Unconscious? Yep, definitely in need of medical intervention. His eyes traveled over the other's room, a black-clawed thumb gently rubbing the skin over Squee's protruding zygomatic, careful not to accidentally pierce the unhealthy skin and touch bone. He leaned forward and delicately, very delicately, brushed his lips over the mortal's. A pause to linger, memorizing the texture of the boy's soft lips.

Pepito smiled and climbed to his feet, Squee's prone body curled into the curves of his inhumanely strong arms. There was a tiny pressure in his brain and he smirked. Shmee floated up and into Squee's limp arms with barely an effort on Pepito's part and they left Squee's empty, empty house for the supernatural residents to do as they saw fit in Squee's absence. First to the hospital to have Squee's stomach pumped clean of any drugs and putrid nutrients, and then to the Diablo residence for ridiculous amounts of Chinese food and subbed anime.

Outside Pepito glanced down and Squee's slack face. "Diet my ass, Todd." That was uncouth of himself, but he judged the circumstance's peculiar enough to allow it. After all, was any moment spent in the company of Squee anything but peculiar?

He smiled. He wouldn't have their friendship any other way.

810101010108

Just the beginning of what I hope to be a Squee/Pepito extravaganza on my part. I love the pairing to death, second only to Nny/Edgar, but there just aren't enough fics focusing on the two of them. I'm pretty sure I've read most of them, if not all, and can count them without using all of my fingers. Lame.

So, in a WEAK attempt to bulk up the Squee/Pepito fanbase, I've begun to actually use my copy of _The Writer's Block_ by Jason Rekulak. I'll be using—I hope to fuckin' god—many of the spark words as both titles and inspirations for one-shots and/or—if I'm capable of writing anything less than five hundred words!!—drabbles. Just so you know, that's about eighty-three little stories there. I doubt I can do it. But that sure as hell doesn't mean I'm not gonna write as many as I can.

This was #1 on my list, Diet. Eighty-two more to go, fuck yeah.

Hope you enjoyed.

Androgynous-Napkin

P.S. Go read my best friend and fellow author's story on adultfanfiction, Suck Pennifier. It's a PWP, so beware. Beta'd by me, so I know it intimately. It's fuckin' awesome. READ IT. Look for the name Incothe.

P.P.S. No, this obviously wasn't my PWP Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum. I've never written one of those before, and the way it's going now, it's gonna be a mother of a crack fic. It's already fourteen pages long and NOTHING SEXUAL HAS HAPPENED. So no, no Incothe. I still owe you that fic. I'm workin' on it, I swear. But look, I named it!

. . . Dammit, I'm hungry now.

Ima STFU now, m'kay? M'kay.


End file.
